Winter Mournings
by Lip Balm
Summary: What happens when winter arrives and all of that corn dies.


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Greetings and salutations. :] My Muse is coming back…slightly? I sprained my ankle yesterday so I'm at home hoppin' around. 

Disclaimer: I don't own him. Darn. 

Note. This is a one shot. That means there will be no other chapters. Thanks! 

Review, please. :]

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The winter came like a bitter tasting pill. It wrapped Mort in such a restraint that he felt like exploding. Clumps of heavy snow thudded as it hit the barren garden, covering his withering stalks of corn. He watched them. He watched them die and he felt something inside of him grow like a budding, flickering flame. 

It had come too soon. And _he _would come soon after. Winter had approached Mort Rainey when he had his back turned, but by the time he writhed around, it was too late. His crops were dead. Dead like Amy and Ted. Dead like himself. John Shooter would come soon enough, he could already hear his anticipating laughter and his southern drawl, but soon, he would be waltzing around, taunting and prying, and killing everything that ever breathed air. Again. 

"No," he croaked, not surprised at how weak his voice sounded.

Mort had not finished. He had not finished engulfing all of Amy and Ted like Shooter wanted. His corn had died, as plants of all sorts did every winter. And so they were still there, underneath that permeated soil, rotting and rotting but going no where. 

How he had tried! Even with those damned braces, he had eaten and eaten until he could just about explode. And so Shooter was happy. Shooter was happy and far, far away, like a Cheshire cat ghost, and because of this, Mort was happy. 

Now he felt a sense of unsettledness in his body, and a sweat broke out of the pores in his back. He stumbled down the stairs and sat on his couch, burying himself between where the back and the seat cushions met. Eventually he fell asleep, eyes closed, breath even, and hair matted with sweat. 

****

The snow continued to fall.

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When morning came, the first thing that he did was look out the window. And his heart sank to his toes. Mort had hoped, that by some miracle, the snow would stop and stalks of corn would shoot up from the ground. But it hadn't. And so _he _would be back. Mort could feel his blood racing through his veins, his arteries throbbing uncontrollably. 

"Terrible weather we're havin', huh, Mister Rainey?"

Mort didn't turn around. He couldn't bear to face that drawling, smirking face. A minute dragged on.

"I asked you a question, pilgrim."

"What are you doing here?" Mort asked softly. He faced him, but dared not look him in the eye just yet. 

"You know very well why I'm here," John Shooter said, pulling up a chair and sitting comfortably in it. His black suede hat tipped over his forehead. "How's Amy and ol' Ted doing?" He asked.

"You know the answer."

Shooter smiled fiendishly, "I won't lie to you, Mister Rainey. I do know the answer." He seemed calm as usual.

"This," Mort gestured to the window, where the snow covered garden lay. "Is not my fault." 

"Not your fault?" Shooter growled. "This is your fault. If you had just been calm about our little situation, this would have never happened."

"How am I to control the weather?" Mort cried out, throwing a book across the room and smashing a lamp. "This is what you wanted in the first place, anyway, Shooter." His balled up fist pounded into the scratched desk. 

"No sir, not exactly. But I must say, this coinciding ending…I like. I thank you for that, Mister Rainey." Shooter smirked lightly, taking off of his hat and setting it next to Mort's hand. "Now, as for this winter business. I agree, it is not your fault. But there are some matters to be settled, son…"

Mort's eyes bored into that secret window, and glint from the glare of the white snow caught his eye. Looking over to his desk, next to Shooter's hat, lay a pair of rusting scissors. 

"I'll do it," Mort said suddenly, grabbing the scissors and pressing the point against his throat. "I'll kill myself. I'll kill myself and you'll be gone." His voice was high pitched and hysterical, eyes dilating and a nervous sheen in the iris. 

Shooter stared at Mort, looking flabbergasted for a mere second. And then he laughed harshly, great eruptions exploding from his wide mouth. "You will do no such thing, Mister Rainey." His voice was dangerously soft. 

Mort faced him fully, "Why? What makes you think that I won't jab this scissor into my throat. Maybe even bring a radio into the tub and jump in a year from now. Hell, it could be tomorrow or in ten years." 

"Naïve…a pity," Shooter seethed. "There is no me, pilgrim." His tone was mocking and light, Mort's hand trembled slightly, nicking the area underneath his chin. "Only you."

"I know that part," Mort said, voice shaking. "I can bring you down with me."

"Not possible, Mister Rainey. Is your memory as horrible as this raw, cutting winter?" Shooter cackled gleefully. "**I am you.**" 

Mort felt a pain burst like a welled up balloon in his chest, opening all of Pandora's box's evil. Shooter watched intently, and smiled slightly before looking out of the window. The snow fell lightly, sprinkling the ground, and Mort felt himself die. 

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****

Spring came softly, almost as sudden as the bleak winter had. Shooter picked a basketful of young corn from the stalks in the lush garden and brought them from inside, admiring them tenderly.

He turned around, "Purdy, aren't they." He said softly, and shut the back door with a high-pitched squeak. He caught his reflection in the grimy window. Mort's face stared at him back, and Shooter knew that Mort was still struggling in the back of his brain. But for now. _This body was his. _

Placing the ears of corn in a boiling pot, he sat himself down at the table, rolling an already cooked cob on a stick of butter. The doorbell rang, chiming eerily twice in his home. Shooter sighed and opened the door a crack, peering outside. 

"Are you Mr. Mort Rainey?" A pudgy man with combed hair and a well pressed suit asked. 

"That's me," Shooter said in a friendly manner. 

"Good. I'd like to introduce you to a new church only a few miles from here. The name is Fred Lawson, may I step in?" 

"Sure." Shooter said, guiding him to the kitchen table. "Church, you said?" There was a slight pause. "Would you like something to eat?"

"Yes, Mr. Rainey, a church." Shooter handed Fred Lawson a cool glass of lemonade and an ear of corn, as Fred handed Shooter a glossy brochure. 

He flipped through the brochure, glancing over the happy people as Fred took a bite of the corn, smiling. 

"This is rather good, Mr. Rainey. I can't cook for anything. Now, the church that I attend is.."

Shooter looked amused. "Must be the fertilizer," He interrupted.

The man loosened his tie slightly, taking another bite of the corn. "My wife loves gardening. Can't seem to get anything to grow, though." He laughed, stomach bouncing. "Tell me, what fertilizer do you use?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mr. Lawson. It's a secret only myself and one other person understands." Shooter sprinkled salt onto his ear of corn, biting into it savagely before speaking. "But I can show you. And then we'll talk about goin' to church."

"Sounds good," Fred said, his portly belly shaking as Shooter motioned for him to move outside. 

"Garden in the back, Mr. Rainey?"

"Sure is," Shooter said with a friendly smile. "Please, call me Shooter."

"Shooter?"

"Just a family nickname. It sticks." Shooter said, giving a hearty chuckle. "You know?"

"Yeah," Fred said, unsure. "Now, do you attend a church?"

"Nah," Shooter said casually, sticking his hands in his pocket. "I sin too much."

"That's a common misconception. Guilt…"

And so Fred Lawson and John Shooter walked to the back to the back of the house together, rambling on in a friendly manner. Shooter picked up a tired looking shovel nonchalantly.

"Do we need that?" Fred asked curiously.

"Oh yeah," He said, "Let's continue walking. We're almost to the garden. Just over that corner over there. It's a pretty little thing." Fred grinned, glancing forward a bit. 

Shooter smiled cheerily as he lifted the shovel high about his head and threw the blade violently into Fred Lawson's face with a sickening _crunch_. 

"Happy spring, Mr. Lawson," John Shooter said in a thick, Southern accent, smearing the blood on his face. He picked up Fred Lawson's arm and dragged him slowly across the rich soil. "Great time for gardening, eh?"

Fishing out a Pall Mall's cigarette from his pocket, he struck a match and lit the tip on fire, inhaling triumphantly. Picking up the shovel once more, he struck the fertile soil of his garden with the arc of the blade and began to dig. 

****

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Wow. I had a blast writing this. Review please. :] 


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